


Lightning Rods

by GrapefruitTwostep



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Doesn't really stop off at friends at all, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Mom friend warden, confused idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:43:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrapefruitTwostep/pseuds/GrapefruitTwostep
Summary: The sickness affected Morrigan's magic, not her mind, but Alistair started to think maybe it was contagious. He'd certainly come down with something because if he hadn't ... well, that didn't even bear thinking about. Maybe it was just a little touch of insanity, making him think about her all the time.Even that would be a better option.





	Lightning Rods

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha, it's 2019 and I'm writing Origins fanfic, so that's just great and dandy. But hey, I did Stargate fanart the other day, so maybe it's just a really bad case of nostalgia.
> 
> Anyway, I thought I'd write a little short story and it ended up being longer than expected. Oy vey.

The Deep Roads curled beneath the earth, a coiled serpent of passages, tombs, and abandoned settlements. Here, covered by the crust of the world, lay a whole civilization of heavy columns and broken pillars. Lit by odd fungus and the dancing glow of a single torch, the roads seemed bigger and longer than they were ... or maybe it was just they seemed to be the right size.

Alistair, of course, didn't particularly care about most of it.

He was coming to the conclusion that the dwarves were right: there were surface people and underground people, and he was a surface person. The walls pressed against his consciousness, closing in, pushing against his skull.

The worst part was his fellow  and supposedly junior Gray Warden, Callil Aeducan, wasn't having a problem at all. Likely that was because she'd once been some kind of Dwarven princess — once a princess, not once dwarven, obviously. She'd been raised in Orzammar and knew the Deep Roads well enough that she didn't need a map.

He took slight comfort in the fact that sometimes, aboveground, he caught her glaring resentfully at the sky, but it was only very slight.

What granted him a larger measure of comfort was that Wynne and the witch were in the same position he was. Wynne maintained her usual charming calm, but the wrinkles around her eyes and nose deepened the further they traveled, and a certain tautness developed around her thin lips. Her grandmotherly face became more and more strained as the day — days? — passed.

The witch, of course, was complaining. She didn't like it down here. She missed having access to the sky and the forces of nature she used in her workings. Give her forests any day, she announced loudly, compared to these horrible stone passages.

Alistair and Wynne shared a look when she started up again in earnest, but Callil started laughing almost immediately. "Surfacers," she muttered to herself like it was the worst insult she could come up with. "Calm down. We're almost back to Orzammar anyway. You'll have your precious fresh air back before you can sneeze. Take the next left."

"How does she do that?" Alistair whispered, mostly to himself. He was hopelessly lost.

"I'm a dwarf!" Callil called back without turning around. "A descendant of the noble line of House Aeducan, before my idiot baby brother ruined its good name." She spat towards the side of the passageway in disgust. "The Deep Roads are in my blood, Alistair."

"Stone and darkspawn," the witch said. "An unpleasant upbringing."

"How do you think she ended up like that?" Alistair said and the witch's mouth twitched into a half smile.

Callil's hand flashed up and they all froze. "Hold," she said in her commander's tone, even though none of them were moving.

Alistair strained his ears and made out guttural growls and the clink of armor. His heart pounded.

"Darkspawn," Callil whispered unnecessarily.

"Good," the witch hissed, her eyes burning yellow like a cat's in the low light. "Something to take my mind off your horrible home."

Alistair unhooked his shield from his back and drew his sword, a whispered rasp of metal against metal. Stepping forward, he took his place beside Callil's shoulder, in front of the mages. Wynne's cotton's robes and the witch's odd leather-and-feather ensemble wouldn't protect them from a stray arrow.

"How many?" he asked.

Callil shrugged. "Enough," she said in the voice she reserved for tall surfacers who couldn't help but ask stupid questions.

Alistair rolled his eyes.

A boot scraped on rock and a Genlock rounded the corner. Its pale eyes flickered around the corridor. Its mouth opened, showing broken teeth.

Without batting a ginger eyelash, Callil swung her greatsword up and decapitated the Genlock. Black blood sprayed across her boots. The head hit the rock and bounced across the stone. Without even acknowledging the gore, Callil glanced around the corner and said, "Here they come."

After that, it got complicated.

"Enough" Darkspawn turned out to be more than Alistair had hoped, at least twenty-five of the things to their party of four. Alistair and Callil bottlenecked them, hacking mindlessly at the unpleasantly slimey bodies. A burst of light — bloody red, spewing sparks — flew over Alistairs shoulder and he barely ducked.

"Shoot the emissary!" Callil yelled, her voice booming and massive even over the screams and sounds of battle.

Alistair looked up, trying to get a look at the darkspawn mage, but a huge Hurlock swung a rusty mace at his head. He had to stab it through the gut and kick it off his sword, so he lost track of what was going on around him.

A scream split the air, high and clear.

Alistair spun around, heart pounding. Of all the people to scream, it shouldn't have been ... not  _ her _ . She didn't  _ do _  that. But he hadn't misheard. Wynne bent over the witch, who had one hand out, bracing herself on the stone. Her hair had come loose and tumbled across her face, a dark mask over her face through which one eye burned gold.

"Morrigan," Wynne said, reaching down. "Morrigan —"

The emissary roared and another bolt of red flame arched over his head.

Alistair grabbed Morrigan, who was still doubled over in obvious pain, and shoved her onto the floor beneath him, holding his shield over his head. Morrigan's skull hit the rock floor, but the blast went over their heads and burned itself out on the magical shield Wynne had raised. Purple sparks fizzled around them, lighting Morrigan's face lavender.

She groaned. Her skin was even more pale than normal and her eyes sparkled. Actually sparkled. Pale lightning ran through her irises.

"Morrigan," Alistair said, but she didn't answer and her eyes wouldn't focus on his face, inches away. "Hey, Morrigan!"

Callil roared some dwarven challenge. A squelching thud echoed through the hall — the distinctive sound of sharp, heavy metal on meat. The emissary's chanting cut off with a gurgle. The only sound now, echoing off the walls, was heavy breathing — human and dwarf only, not darkspawn.

Callil's footsteps approached and Alistair pulled away from Morrigan, realizing he'd been lying mostly on top of her. With the weight of his armor, he was probably doing more harm than good. He touched her shoulder, but she just trembled. Her skin looked clammy so Alistair unbuckled his gauntlet and pulled it off, tossing it aside in order to press his bare hand to her face. Her skin was freezing.

"Wynne!" he yelled.

Wynne knelt beside him — he hadn't even realized she was there. Morrigan opened her eyes, still golden and bright as a bird's, but unfocused. "What happened?"

"How do you feel, my dear?" Wynne asked gently.

"Awful." Morrigan grasped at Alistair's hand. The contact shocked him — he wasn't sure she'd ever touched him before. Her fingers tightened on his, freezing cold. "Alistair?"

"You fell down," he told her unnecessarily.

"T’was you who pushed me," she said weakly. "Help me up."

He pulled her to her feet and stepped away just in time as she wavered, pulled her hand from his, and vomited into a nearby clump of broken rocks.

"That doesn't look healthy," Alistair muttered.

Wynne came closer and checked Morrigan's eyes while offering her a canteen of water to wash her mouth out with. "She's got a concussion," Wynne announced.

"Lovely," Morrigan said, sounding peeved. Her voice was rough. "I believe I am going to vomit again."

Wynne patted Morrigan’s shoulder as she retched, holding her dark hair away from her face. She murmured soothing words and rubbed Morrigan's back between her bare shoulder blades.

Alistair looked at Callil, who pursed her lips as she watched the two mages. "What are we going to do?" Alistair asked her.

Callil looked up and raised a red eyebrow. "You carry her. We'll get her outside, out of Orzammar. We can fix her up back in camp. I don't want any of my people — any of the dwarves — to touch her. They don't like magic." She looked at Morrigan and pressed her lips together. "She needs to be healthy."

"I can't carry her," Alistair protested, focusing on the worst bit of Callil's plan. "You need a fighter."

Callil drew herself up and squared her already very broad shoulders. She didn't have much in the way of height, but there was a regality to her that scared Alistair. Most royalty scared him. They had a stance to them, a way of looking down their noses even if the target of their anger was a good two feet taller, as was the case here. Alistair had never mastered the art.

"I grew up in these tunnels, Alistair," Callil said, sounding like it was a threat. "I was  _ abandoned _  in these tunnels and I fought my way out with my bare fists. I killed darkspawn with my  _ hands _  and I'll thank you to remember that. Now, carry the damn witch!"

"I do not wish to be carried," Morrigan protested weakly.

"And I don't want to fight the archdemon," Callil said, still as acidic as if she'd been drinking vinegar. "We must all suffer. Wynne, cover them."

And with her orders given, she flounced off. Or at least, as much as a heavily armored dwarven lady covered in darkspawn blood  _ could _  flounce.

Alistair leaned down and slipped his arms around Morrigan. She tensed when he touched her, when he bent his knees and lifted her up, settling her against his chest. "Do  _ not _  throw up on me," he warned.

"Would not  _ dream _  of it," Morrigan muttered. Her head fell against his armored shoulder and he winced in sympathy at how cold it must be against her already chilled skin.  "Tis it not a hassle to wear all of this?"

Not quite listening, Alistair said, "I need it. For protection." Her dark hair stuck to her face; she was sweating more than he thought was normal. He adjusted his hold on her and set off after Callil and Wynne, who walked together, speaking quietly. "And right now it's helping me protect you, so maybe a little less complaining would be nice?"

She laughed. "And what a lucky girl I am."

The laughing turned into a cough, heavy and deep as though something wet had moved into her chest. Alistair had seen concussions and head wounds before, but none of them presented like this. There was something else wrong with her and he didn't like it.

"You shall be the death of me, Templar," Morrigan said.

"If only I got to be that lucky," Alistair growled, deciding to ignore his suspicions about her condition given that she was still being annoying. "Now stop talking so we can get you to the surface."

She kept coughing, chest heaving as she struggled for air. As he opened his mouth to offer her some more of Wynne's water, her eyes rolled back into her head, the whites looking too much like darkspawn blight for comfort. Her head banged against the breastplate of his armor and then again. Her whole body shook, spasming.

"Morrigan," he said, and realized suddenly that he'd been thinking of her by name, and not just as "the witch". Not a good time to consider that, as he stopped walking to try to hold on to her. "Morrigan!"

She wasn't coming around. It felt as though she would shake apart in his arms. With his armor and her shuddering, it was hard to keep ahold of her. If she dropped, she'd smash straight into the rock floor and break something else.

Also there were sparks playing over her face and hands, and Alistair thought that was probably a bad sign.

"Wynne!" Alistair yelled.

Wynne was there in a second, bending her silver head over Morrigan and pressing her wrinkled hands to the witch's milk white face. Sweat sheened Morrigan's forehead.

"She's burning up," Wynne said. "Whatever that darkspawn did to her, it's made her sick." She shook her head. "I can make her sleep, but no more. Not yet."

"Do it." Alistair gritted his teeth as Morrigan spasmed, her wild thrashing becoming even more violent. "Quickly. A witch with a broken skull is even less useful than normal."

He didn't tell Wynne that his heart was crammed into his throat at the sight of Morrigan's pained face. He tightened his grip on her, bending slightly. Her hair cascaded across his armor.

Wynne put one hand on Morrigan's twisted brow and white light spilled from her palm. Morrigan's shaking slowed, then finally stilled. Her breathing returned to normal. She'd bitten her lip and blood soaked the corner of her mouth, a slow trickle that dripped onto his still-gauntleted hand.

Despite that, Alistair allowed himself to release the breath he'd been holding.

"What did he do to her?" Callil asked.

She stood a few feet away, feet spread wide and sword drawn in a guard position. The tunnel was empty aside from them, but Callil still looked like she was expecting trouble. Despite her size, she took up a lot of room.

"I don't know what he did," Wynne told her. She laid two fingers on the exposed side of Morrigan's long neck to check her pulse, then felt her forehead with the back of her hand. That done, she delicately peeled back Morrigan's eyelid, revealing only whiteness. "It's a sickness, certainly," Wynne said, "but not like any I've seen before. Perhaps rest will put her right." She glanced up at Alistair. "You'll look after her?

"I suppose," Alistair grumbled.

He adjusted his grip, trying to  _ touch _  her so much. Now that she was quiet and still, he had become hyper aware of how much of her was pressed against him and he didn't like it, even through the metal layer of his armor. Her skin against his neck, the soft hair brushing his chin. He'd lost his helmet a long time ago, dropped into some chasm when a Darkspawn had jumped him, but now he wanted it back. It would obscure his view of her bare chest and ribs, and maybe stifle the smell of her skin — chilled sweat and the sage soap she used in whatever rivers they were able to come across. Even after this long underground, the scent clung to her hair.

He didn't want to be smelling her. He just wanted to be back on the surface and not  _ carrying the damn witch _ .

Wynne, apparently oblivious to his annoyance, patted his cheek as though he was a child. "There's  a good boy," she told him.

"I'm not a dog," Alistair called as she walked away, but it was too late. "We already have a dog. It's not me. Why can't anyone get that straight?"

"Shut up, Alistair!" Callil called over her shoulder, her voice brighter than he'd heard it in a while. Despite that, her head turned this way and that, still searching for any trouble around them. Did she think the Darkspawn would just pop out of the walls? Well ... maybe she should think that. That was exactly what Darkspawn did.

They weren't very far from Orzammar, but by the the time they reached the dwarven city with its falls of lava — because dwarves apparently couldn't do water like everyone else — Alistair's arms felt as though they were going to fall off. He couldn't carry Morrigan in any other way because of her limp body and his paldrens. He'd already tried to throw her over one shoulder like a sack of vegetables, but the armor got in his way.

As they emerged from the Deep Roads and into the sudden bustle of city, he found himself dragging behind Wynne and Callil, which felt stupid given that they were both much older than he was. Damn Princess Warden, making him carry this stupid witch —

Not, but that wasn't fair to Callil, he reminded himself. Logically, he knew that she would have happily carried Morrigan, princess or not, but Callil didn't carry any humans. Or elves. Too short. Morrigan's head would have been dragging along the floor this whole way. Probably wouldn't have made a difference, given that Morrigan's skull was hard as a rock and twice as unforgiving.

"Take her to camp," Callil said, pausing long enough to speak to Alistair. She had a cloth in one hand, given to her by the dwarven guards, and was using it to clean darkspawn blood from her face and hair. Her sword leaned against her leg, also clean — weapons first, she was always telling him. A good warrior, that was Callil. By her own admission, not great at much else.

But when she looked at Morrigan, the lines around her eyes and on her forehead grew more pronounced.

Alistair opened his mouth.

"Do  _ not _  argue with me, young man," she told him, sounding too much like Wynne, and he sighed and shut up. Callil didn't do well with backtalk.

"Wynne," Callil said. "Go back with them. See what you can do for Morrigan. I need to talk with my new king, and then I'll join you."

"Dragged us all the way back into those tunnels  _ after _  you bent the dwarves to your will," Alistair grumbled. "I can't believe it."

"Unfinished business," Callil said, now bloodless and neat as a pin. She ran a hand through her short hair and straightened her shoulders. "Done now. We'll get you back out to your horrible sky, don't you worry."

"Dwarves." Sighing,  Alistair readjusted Morrigan in his screaming arms and started up the stairs to the city gate.

Leliana made a right fuss when he walked into camp with Morrigan. Bless Leliana's sneaky black little heart, even though he could have done without her fluttering around him. But he'd expected it. "I need to put her down," he said. "Please, Maker, or I'm going to drop her."

Leliana got out of the way and helped him lay Morrigan gently beneath her patchwork lean-to, which smelled of wet wood and herbs. It had been raining, Leliana informed him, for two whole days already and showed no signs of stopping. The sky was a hard, gray mass, not unlike the tunnels they'd been in, and it barely felt like he'd emerged from underground.

He sat down beside Morrigan, unable to get back up. His arms ached and he made little circles with his shoulders, trying to loosen muscles wound tight as tournaquites. Wynne and Leliana pressed into the space as well, cooing over Morrigan's unconscious body. Alistair ignored them and sure enough, they bustled off to make some kind of medicine for the witch. He didn't care what it was.

The camp was quiet. Alistair was very damp, and his armor felt twice as heavy as normal. He knew he needed to get up to take it off, but it seemed like so much work. The rain plunking over the tight canvas above him was so comfortable and calming. He idly shifted Morrigan's head so it lay at a more natural angle and her mouth pursed. The sleeping spell must be wearing off. Her eyes flickered beneath their lids and her hands twitched.

She didn't wake yet though.

Alistair leaned back against the wooden support of Morrigan's shelter and looked up at the darkening sky. It wasn't a storm. Alistair wouldn't have minded a real thunder storm, something with lightning and noise to get his mind off Morrigan's condition. The unending gray rain pressed on his soul. It was as though they were still in the Deep Roads. The sky above him was still low and gray like stone, he was still damp, clammy and uncomfortable, and the sun was still missing.

But at least it was quiet, he thought. No cave echo. No darkspawn. No complaining witch.

As if on cue, Morrigan turned her head towards him, eyelids fluttering. "Alistair?" she said, her voice sleepy. It wasn't the accusation it usually was and there was something about the delicacy, the way she shaped his name, that made his stomach flip over. He reached out for her, then stopped.

Her eyes opened and she blinked at the rain. "Where are we?"

"Camp." He leaned his head back to look at her. "I had to carry you all the way back. You're not light, you know that? For how skinny you are, I thought you'd have less heft to you."

Her long, pale fingers came up to touch her temple as she winced. Alistair followed the motion of her hand, trailing down her cheek and around the curve of her jaw. "You carried me? From the Deep Roads?"

"And I haven't heard a thank you yet," he grumbled, still staring at the corner of her mouth for no apparent reason.

Her sour tone crept back. "And what do I owe you for the pleasure?"

"Glad your bad attitude has remained totally intact," Alistair told her, feeling on more solid ground.

She moved her fingers in front of her face as though they didn't belong to her. A quick flick-and-twist of her wrist made her face contort in confusion. Alistair recognized it was one of her casting gestures, but nothing happened. Frowning, Morrigan repeated the motion.

"What's wrong?"

"I cannot ..." Morrigan trailed off, tried for a third time, and wrinkled her forehead in concentration or annoyance, he wasn't sure which. Sparks danced between her fingers suddenly, purple-blue against the gray rain, and she smiled and sighed in relief.

Until her eyes rolled  back into her head and she started convulsing again.

Alistair cursed. He didn't touch her, unsure of whether or not he'd hurt her. Frantically, he glanced over his shoulder and called, "Wynne! She's doing it again!"

But Wynne was elsewhere, likely her tent. The rain had gotten harder and it muffled the sound of Alistair's voice, drowning out his yelling. He could get up and get Wynne, but that would mean leaving Morrigan alone and he absolutely wasn't doing that. What if she hurt herself?

He leapt to his feet, muscles aching, and stood back from her, chewing the inside of his cheek. Should he try to hold her still? No, he'd  _ definitely _  hurt her doing that. Instead, he just stood over her protectively, feeling stupid and frantic, until the shaking calmed, then stopped.

Rain poured down in a torrent, heavier and heavier, drowning out the sound of Morrigan's ragged breathing and Alistair's pounding heart.

"Are you all right?" he said, sounding as stupid as he felt. To make up for it, Alistair knelt back down, his armor clinking, still not laying a hand on her.

Pain and exhaustion twisted Morrigan's face. Her skin was waxy, her eyes still somewhat unfocused. "My magic," she said, horse and quiet. "Tis in my magic. A sickness. A disease."

"So the shaking ...?"

"Occurs when I try to call upon my power, yes." Morrigan raised one hand and wiped her sweaty hair from her forehead. "I shall not make that mistake as long as the sickness lasts."

Alistair looked down at her. Sprawled out on the ground, exhausted and disheveled, should have made Morrigan seem tired and sick, but there was something about the look — cheeks flushed, hair messy and escaped from its ties — that made Alistair's heart beat a little faster. He didn't want to examine too closely what that meant. Maybe he was sick too.

"That's what magic gets you," he said to cover his confusion.

"Fool," Morrigan spat at him, and the vitriol in her voice was familiar at least. It was almost a relief to be angry with her. "Tis not the fault of my magic that it gets sick when poisoned, just like your body or mine. Just as 'tis not your fault you say stupid things when spoken to."

He clenched his fists, wondering if he could get away with hitting her. But no, she was so pale and weak, like a baby bird. It wouldn't feel right to hit her until she got better. Besides, she knew her magic scared him, and she had a tendency to use that to get back at him when he teased her. It wouldn’t be a good idea to give her more ammunition.

For a moment, there was silence except for the rain.

"Morrigan," Alistair said suddenly, turning to her, his mouth working without any input from his brain, "I —"

A clink of wet armor cut him off and Callil emerged from the rain, as though she was a wraith rather than a woman. Her head was bowed and red hair was plastered to her face and large ears. Her still, contemplative face was hard as the rocky caverns she was born in. When she looked Morrigan over, her face didn't change.

Alistair watched her face, looking for some kind of flicker beneath the streams of rainwater, but there was nothing. That was Callil, always the hero. Pleasant, but distant. Her private and public personas were exactly the same. Except, of course, when someone was being an idiot. Then she managed "vaguely horrified".

"How are you?" Callil asked Morrigan, ducking her head under the hide roof. Morrigan shifted, but Callil held up a hand. "No, don't get up. You look terrible."

Morrigan's brow crinkled as though she was trying to decide whether or not Callil was insulting her, but gave up. Which Alistair understood.

"She says the darkspawn poisoned her magic," Alistair said, sounding even to himself like a child tattling on his friend.

"I see." Callil looked down at Morrigan. "I cannot help you with that. As I'm sure you know."

"Of course not. You are a dwarf." Morrigan's smile was as poisoned as her magic. "Of course you know nothing of this. Ask Wynne."

Unspoken was " _ she'll explain it to you _ ."

"I will," Callil said with no irony. She glanced out into the dreary forest hemming them in, the dark trees pressing up against the tents. "But we have other business as well. Perhaps we'll travel to the Circle and get some more advice." She turned back to Morrigan — hard, collected, distant. "I'm sorry, Morrigan. I wish I could pause the blight to find you a cure, but we still have things to do."

"I understand." Despite the words, something about Morrigan's voice sounded even more annoyed than usual. "I know you always do what you can."

"Alistair." Callil turned and jerked her head out into the rain. "Walk with me."

Alistair struggled to his feet, the weight of his armor increasing every time he stood. He needed to get the damned stuff off before it rusted in all this damp, but there hadn't yet been time. It took him a moment but he followed Callil to the treeline where she'd found a place beneath the spreading branches of an oak. The rain still dripped on them, but it wasn't as heavy. Leaves rippled over their heads.

"I hate rain," Callil said, one of her rare personal statements. "We never had any rain in Orzammar, you know. Better that way."

"Up here, we need rain," Alistair said. "For all those handy plants on the surface. So we don't have to live on mushrooms and nugs."

"None of your sass today, please," Callil said primly glancing up in that "looking down on him" way. "I need you to remain in camp with Morrigan."

His heart plummeted into his boots. "What? No. I can't. I  _ won't _ . You need me more than she does. I'm not going to play nursemaid to a horrible witch just because she's gone and gotten herself poisoned!"

"Would you shut up?" Callil's amber eyes went hard and merciless, focused like cut glass against his throat. "For once, boy, would you just do as I say?"

"Callil." His voice came out a whine, which he hated but couldn't stop. "Not because of her _.  _ Don't make me stay with  _ her _ ." He brightened a little. "Don't you need protection too?"

"I can take Oghren with me." Callil looked out into the rain in the direction of Oghren's tent, where there was singing. "He can protect me, not that I need it. I don't need anyone to keep me safe, Alistair, especially not a boy like you. I was butchering deepstalkers before you were born, and don't you forget it." She sighed and Alistair realized the rain was making her uncharacteristically moody. It was hard to tell, given her usual even keel, but she was definitely engaging in something like sulking.

"Leliana and Oghren are not you and Morrigan," she said as though sharing a secret, "but I trust them just as much, and they're useful in a fight. I can't leave anyone else with her. Shale will crush Morrigan if no one watches them, given all of Morrigan's feathers. Sten just doesn't care enough to look in on her, and Zevran ... " She sighed and gave a lopsided smile. "Well, that boy's just a mystery, isn't he."

Alistair agreed with everything Callil said, in principal, but he felt like he was being put in time out. It didn't help that Callil tended to talk about all of them — except Wynne and perhaps Oghren — as though they were children and she was there very put-upon mother.

"YOu two may hate each other," she said, smiling, "but I know you'll do all you can to keep her safe here at camp. Just like you keep her safe in the rest of Ferelden."

"I keep  _ you _  safe!" Alistair protested. "Not  _ her _ !"

"We'll call it a happy accident." Callil tilted her head. "I'm not asking, Alistair. But I  _ am _  trying to be polite. Don't make me order you to do it."

Alistair sighed. He knew he'd lost the argument.

"All right," he said, voice coming out soft and quiet in defeat. "I'll watch the witch."

"Good." Callil clapped one heavy hand onto his elbow, which was as high as she could reach. "Thank you, Alistair. I appreciate this."

"You know," Alistair said with the remaining petutuence, "I've been a warden for longer than you have."

Callil smiled. "I've been royalty my whole life, boy. It's easy to be in charge when you're raised to it." Then she actually winked at him, which made him blink in confusion. "You'll learn."

"What?"

"Nothing." She grinned. "Besides, I'm older than you are. That puts me in charge."

"That's cheating."

"Cheating is exactly what royalty does." She peered out at the tents. "We need to be off soon. I'll rally the troops. Get Morrigan something to eat."

* * *

Callil's troops looked damp.

It wasn't their fault, given the days of rain, but it did make them huddle closer together. Oghren and Callil's heads bent together — their red hair was nearly the same shade and it make them look like mirror images of each other. Wynne, wearing oiled canvas to keep off the rain, laughed with Leliana, the mirth at odds with the weather.

Alistair felt very alone.

Of course, he wasn't. Sten sat under a tree, sharpening a greatsword. Zevran was in his tent, probably complaining about wet boots. Shale stood directly in the middle of the downpour, completely still and silent. The rain meant nothing to the golem.

When Callil and her company disappeared into the forest, Alistair went to check on Morrigan.

She was shaking again, but this time it was because of the cold. It  _ was _  cold, of course, but she looked too chilled even for this weather. Her lips were blue and her breath fogged the air in front of her mouth and nose. She lay on her side, curled beneath a heavy wolf pelt.

Alistair knelt beside her in the growing dark. Sten got up and went into his tent, his eyes glittering in the low light. There was a lamp lit in the wagon of the dwarven merchants, the only warm-looking spot in camp.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked Morrigan, already knowing the answer.

"C-c-cold." Morrigan's teeth chattered. She flipped onto her back and threw one hand over her head. Her eyes widened, rolled from one side to the other. Actual frost formed on her eyelashes and lips, crackling across her skin.

Panicked, Alistair struggled to remove his gauntlets and threw them to the side. He pressed his bare hand to her cheek. Cold bit into his fingers.

"Did you do magic?" he demanded.

"No-no-not on purpose." Morrigan's breaths became pants, cold in the air. Alistair put his other hand opposite the first, framing her face. The chill from her skin ran into his hands and up his arms, making his bones ache. "The magic ..." Morrigan amanaged. "Sometimes I do it ... without meaning to ... been doing it for too long to think about it."

Her eyelids fluttered and he could see the seizure coming on.

An idea struck him suddenly. It might not work. And she'd be mad. Very mad. But it was worth a try — anything was better than watching her freeze herself to death and letting it happen. His heart pounded.

"You're not going to like this," he said, bending double over her, his face inches from hers.

"Alistair?" she said. Her lips parted, another question forming there, soft and scared.

Without waiting for her to say anything, Alistair caught her magic, using the templar senses he'd honed for so long. Her mouth opened fully as she realized what he was doing, but he didn't let her say anything. Instead he reeled her magic in close and slammed it straight into the earth below her, grounding it out.

White light exploded from his hands and chest. Morrigan twisted, her back arching up. The light shone from her eyes for just a second, and then it died out. Darkness slammed into place around them and Alistair blinked, unable to see anything at all.

Morrigan didn't move, but her cheeks beneath Alistair's rough hands were suddenly much warmer.

"Morrigan?"

She didn't answer.

"Morrigan, wake up." Maker, please let her be alive. If he'd killed her, he wouldn't be able to live with that.

She was still and silent under his hands and he ran his thumb along her cheekbone.

Her eyelids fluttered and she breathed out, turning her head just a little so it pressed against his fingers. She sighed gently.

"Oh, thank the Maker," he whispered.

Her eyes opened, golden as the summer sun, still hooded. "The Maker has nothing to do with it," she said tartly.

Tension ran out of Alistair's body. His head dropped and came down half an inch, his forehead pressing against hers. Her skin was warm.

Then he became aware of everything — his hands pressed to her face, his forehead to hers. Her hands rested on his armored chest, fingertips against the metal. Her breath fluttered across his lips.

Alistair jerked back, his skin screaming where he'd touched her. He pulled his hands from her face as though her skin burned instead of chilled him. Morrigan blinked up at him, brow furrowed. Her hair spread out around her head, wild and dark against the furs beneath her.

She sat up slowly and Alistair scrambled back, but she didn't seem to have realized what was going through his head. "What have you done?" she said, staring at her own hands. "Where is my magic?"

"It's temporary," Alistair said quickly to avoid getting hit. "Your magic will heal. I can't get rid of it forever, I promise, please don't hurt me."

She stared at him, eyes bright as a hawk in the darkness. "You stole it."

"With plans to give it back," he said quickly.

"Do it now." Morrigan held out her hand, as though he could just hand her magic back to her. The look in her eyes, which he'd first thought was anger, was something different now. Fear. "Give it back immediately."

"I can't." He tried to sound calming but wasn't sure if she would accept his comfort. "It's not like I actually took it. It'll come back on its own."

She was breathing hard, pupils tiny and nostrils flared and pale. "Swear to me," she said, voice shaking. There was madness in her eyes. "Swear to me on your Maker that my magic shall return."

"I swear on Andraste," Alistair told her.

Morrigan breathed out, shuddering. In again, then out. He watched her chest rise and fall, the bare skin flushed as though feverish after being so cold. Then he realized where he was looking and yanked his eyes away.

"No magic," she said, sounding only slightly more calm, "and weak. But not shaking." She held her hand up to watch her still fingers. "Tis not, I think, my day."

Alistair reached out, his body working without conscious thought again. It was only when his knuckles were a half inch from Morrigan's cheek that he realized what he was about to do and yanked his hand back. She blinked at him, wide eyed and horrified as though he'd tried to dump cockroaches in her hair. Rain battered against the skins above their heads as they stared at each other, the shock a palaple thing between them.

She was beautiful, Alistair thought, even with her hair sticking to her skin, her eyes like a predatory bird. Absolutely beautiful.

Before he did anything else stupid, Alistair threw himself backwards and to his feet, muscles screaming at the sudden movement. "Right," he said, folding his arms and clearing his throat. "Rest. Or Callil will have my head on a platter."

The rain, so depressing a moment before, was now a welcome relief. The cold cleared his head of the fog Morrigan's proximity and hungry eyes had put into it, and the wet made him uncomfortable which was better than ... well, the other things he was.

His hands shook and he realized he'd forgotten his gauntlets, but there was no way he could go back for them now. Morrigan was there, and he couldn't stand to be around her, not when she was doing something to his head. Without her magic. Somehow. He didn't know what she was doing or how she was managing it, but he was very certain that it was her fault.

His bare fingers seemed small and weak, somehow fetal without their usual steel gloves and he couldn't stand that weakness right now. He needed to sleep.

Alistair threw himself into his tent, damp, confused, and angry. He wasn't sure why he was so upset, but the feeling boiled through his blood, hot and fast. It felt as though he was missing something, looking for it even, but he didn't know what that thing was. And when he considered it, he found he didn't want to know.

It was dark and he didn't want to light a lamp. Instead, he stripped off his armor, leaving it in a wet pile in an unprofessional way, and tossed himself onto his bed roll.

He didn't sleep.

* * *

The rain showed no signs of stopping.

Alistair wished it was a thunderstorm, but even after all its fluxuations, it had never really become anything more than a concentration of wetness. Instead, the days of rain were as gray and unyielding as the sky the droplets fell from. Their camp became muddy and brown in places where grass has formerly grown, and even Sten — intrepid and weather defying in most circumstances — had sought the shelter of his tent rather than the dreary damp. He'd taken the dog with him, which only encouraged Alistair to imagine the smell, despite his judgement.

Alistair in turn wished he too could hide out in his tent, but he was forced to play nursemaid to an ungrateful witch who wouldn't leave her delicate shelter. Morrigan hated the rain, he'd found. After two whole days of trying to avoid her, her magic began to return. That made her scream at him slightly less. But only slightly. Morrigan treated the lack of magic as though it was the worst thing that had ever happened to her: worse than her mother trying to kill her and the oncoming blight was the forty-eight hours without her magic.

When he'd refused to catch rabbits for her stew though, she'd absolutely lost it. She may not have been able to throw lightning yet, but she could still throw rocks and Alistair just barely managed to dodge a couple of well-aimed stones before he'd escaped from her angry screaming.

The worst part was that Alistair actually felt sorry for Morrigan, despite her short temper and the fact that she kept trying to murder him. He'd been injured before in both his training and his time as a warden, and  it had left him just as antsy as Morrigan was now, his temper close to the surface and his frustrations mounting the less he was allowed to do.

The problem here, however, was Morrigan blamed him for the loss of her magic even though there was nothing he could do to help her. It meant that all that anger and frustration, which should have been internalized, turned outward and focused on him. Every time he tried to speak to her, even to calm her down, she tried to bite his head off.

Their latest confrontation turned out no different than all the other ones in the past two days.

"Fine!" he yelled at her from halfway across the camp, again soaked by the rain as she stood under her sheltering tent. "If you want to be miserable, I won't be the one to stop you! Don’t let me stand in your way!"

He stomped off through the mud, his leather boots soaking up the rain. He'd have to clean them up later, he knew. But that was too much to think about now. He was too angry to work through those consequences, even as water poured between his toes, freezing them. Mud spattered up the backs of his calves.

"You  _ dare _  walk away from  me?" Morrigan's voice went shrill with rage. Her bare feet splashed in the muddy grass behind him as she left the shelter of her tent and chased after him. "Do  _ not _  turn your back on me,  _ Templar _ ."

He hated when she called him that, like it was the worst insult she could muster.

"Alistair, stop!" A splash that could only be the stomp of one small foot. "Look at me, right now, or I shall —"

"You'll what?" He spun. Morrigan was close, one hand extended towards him, fingers crooked as though she'd intended to drag him around to face her. "What are you going to do to me, Morrigan?" Alistair demanded, tired of her anger and shrillness. "Without your pretty sparkles, you're essentially useless. Are you going to engage in fisticuffs with me?" He laughed and Morrigan's face twisted darkly. Alister smirked at her. "A pretty little thing like you?"

He caught himself, but it was too late.

Morrigan's mouth fell open. Raven hair was plastered to her forehead by the rain, but despite being soaking wet and and looking somewhat drowned, her gold eyes shone like stars.

Then she smiled.

A lump formed in Alistair's throat. He didn't like this at all.

"No," he said, holding up his hands. "I didn't mean that."

"I am so sorry, Alistair," Morrigan purred, holding her hand up to her ear and cocking her head to one side, "the rain has affected my hearing. By 'pretty little thing', dids't you mean me?"

"No." Alistair folded his arms. "I  _ dids't _  not."

"You most certainly did," Morrigan continued as though he hadn't said anything. Her smile turned cruel and Alistair's feet seemed to freeze to the earth. "Tis a pity you are so confused, but regardless of your feelings on my appearance ..." Her eyes roved over him, hot and demanding in a way that made the hair rise on his arms, "You still will  _ not _  walk away from me."

"I think I will!" Alistair snapped. Frustration and something else boiled up through his belly. "Let it go, Morrigan. If you yell, people leave you. That's all there is to it."

"Maybe ‘tis what happens to you."

"Shut up!" Alistair threw his hands up into the air. Rain ran into his eyes. "Why can't you ever just shut your mouth for one Maker damned second, Morrigan?"

Morrigan slammed her hands directly into his chest and shoved.

Alistair stumbled back. She wasn't a strong woman, but he'd been caught off guard. Given her usual reliance on her magic, it had surprised him that she even chose to use her physical strength.

As usual, he'd underestimated her.

She stepped forward to shove him again, her hands in front of her, but Alistair caught her wrists. The trick had worked once, but not he was ready for her.

Morrigan laughed and he yanked her close, pinning her arms against his chest. She was cold. Very cold. Her eyes glowed.

Her dark lips parted.

Alistair lowered his head and kissed her.

Morrigan made a noise as though she'd been punched in the stomach and her fists clenched against his chest. Her mouth was cold as the rain sliding between their lips. She pressed into him, mouth opening.

Maker, he'd been waiting for this. Until Alistair had actually kissed her, he hadn't realized how long he'd been anticipating the action. He'd wanted it since he'd first looked up in the woods to see her standing on that old ruin, staff in hand, face pale as the cloudy sky.

When he was younger, he'd played kissing games with servent's daughters in the stables at Redcliff, but this was different. No pre-adolescent pecks here. Morrigan's mouth wasn't soft or shy, it was hard. Demanding. Laughter bubbled in her throat beneath his lips even as she pressed into him.

Alistair growled, pulled her closer, and bit her bottom lip. Morrigan moaned. Cold rain slid down Alistair's face and into the corner of his mouth as he angled his head to deepen the kiss. Morrigan was freezing cold and he slid his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest.

Finally, he pulled away for some air, panting. Morrigan's dark eyelashes fluttered.

"Morrigan," he whispered.

The tip of her tongue emerged and slid over her bottom lip, picking up the rainwater. When he looked down at her, there was pink in her cheeks and rain sliding down her neck. As he followed the water's progress, his gaze drifted down her throat, over her collarbones and the layers of jewelry there, and down her chest. Her clothing stuck to her and peaked her nipples, which pressed through the thin fabric of her cowl.

He swallowed hard.

"That was ... " Morrigan said thoughtfully, "unexpected."

Alistair put one hand on the back of her neck and kissed her again. She slid against him, hips pressing up to his, and he put his other hand around her waist and lifted her from the wet ground. She gasped, arms going around his neck, and lifted her knees so he could walk. There was nowhere to go — Morrigan's shelter was at the edge of camp, but still too visible. Alistair stepped into the forest, beneath the spreading trees, and shoved Morrigan's back into an oak trunk.

She gasped and her nails sank into Alistair's neck, pulling him down and against her. Her lips were still cold but her tongue against his lower lip was hot. Morrigan's legs wrapped around Alistair's waist and he gasped, a sound not nearly as masculine as he wanted it to be.

Alistair pulled away and kissed the side of Morrigan's neck. He ran a hand up her leg, shoving aside layers of leather skirt and as soon as he had it ruched up around her waist, she arched into him, hips moving in a way that made his vision briefly go fuzzy.

He wanted to say something to her, question what was happening, ask her what they were doing, but if he did, he knew he'd never get to be here again, with her soft and panting against him, her breath whispering past his ear. If he said anything at all, it would break the spell, and he didn't want to give up what was likely his only chance to be this close to Morrigan.

He ran messy kisses down her neck, across her shoulders, and licked a stray raindrop from her sternum. Morrigan raked her fingers through her hair, nails sharp against his scalp, and his hips bucked into her instinctively. They both gasped. When he raised his head, her eyes were wide. Her hand slid down his chest, hesitated at his bellybutton, and then lower, to the laces of his breeches.

"Morrigan," he growled.

Morrigan looked up at him and and flashed a cruel smile full of heat. "Alistair?" she said.

Alistair suddenly reversed his previous opinion. Talking wasn't bad. It was good. When she said his name like  _ that, _  it was very good.

She untied the laces.

"Morrigan!"

Morrigan's hands jerked away. Alistair, with Morrigan still pressed between him and the tree trunk, whipped his head around and saw, through the unending rain, Callil standing by Morrigan's hide tent. The weight of the water had collapsed one of the struts, and the furs and packs were soaked. Callil had her helmet in one hand and her head quested back and forth, peering through the pouring water.

Morrigan cursed and vanished.

Alistair almost slammed his face into the tree, given that there was suddenly no witch between him and the trunk. He managed to catch himself before he broke his nose and only then did he notice the cloud of glittering, glowing insects, something like bees but also somewhat different.

"You're insufferable," he growled at the bugs. One of them landed on his arm, its silver wings fluttering as though it was laughing at him. He wished he was able to turn into an entire swarm of bugs in order to escape the embarrassment Callil was about to inflict upon him, but unfortunately, he had to face her like a man ... or at least in the body of one.

He took a few deep breaths and was suddenly very glad for the cold rain. Without a warm witch wrapped around his waist, the chill had done a fantastic job of returning his body to a more normal state of being, one that wouldn't give away what he'd been doing.

"Callil!' He turned and jogged back towards camp, waving. "You're back!"

"Yes." Callil was soaked to the skin but didn't seem to notice. She shook her hair out of her eyes and for the first time, Alistair noticed silver streaks at her temples. How long had those been there? "Where's Morrigan?" Callil asked, pushing her hair out of her face with her right hand, the one missing the finger.

Next to her and her scars and her graying hair, Alistair felt  _ exactly _  like a boy caught canoodling in a barn by his mother.

Alistair shrugged. "The woods," he said, gesturing to the drowning shelter. "As you can see, she was evicted. Even the weather knew what she deserved."

Callil raised an eyebrow. "All right, I understand you two are intent on hating each other and all that, but I'm not in the mood. Just tell me what you did to her."

"I didn't  _ do _  anything," Alistair said with great offense, then thought that the only reason he hadn't was because he hadn't quite gotten there yet. "She's fine. She just went off into the woods like the strange savage beast she is. I didn't question it."

"Well, then you won't question me when I ask you to go find her," Callil said. "We can't have a sick witch wandering around at night."

"Callil," he said, instantly annoyed. "Please don't make me."

"Make him what?"

They both turned. Morrigan was leaning against a nearby paper birch, the white bark almost the color of her cold skin. Her eyes were dark and thoughtful and she made a point of not looking at Alistair, but rather kept her gaze fixed on Callil's worried face.

"Oh, good," Callil said, suddenly sounding much less worried about the whole thing. "I'd assumed you were dead."

Morrigan arched one dark eyebrow. "Why would you think that?"

"Because I'm expecting you and Alistair to murder each other at any moment." Callil's amber eyes flickered from one of them to the other and back as though she knew more than she was letting on. Which she very well might. Alistair wouldn't put it past her to know things she shouldn't, despite her lack of magic and any kind of information gathering skills. She just had one of those faces.

"Don't worry," Alistair said. "I wouldn't bother with the trouble of it."

"Mmm," Callil said. "Well, glad you're feeling better. Morrigan, Leliana's offered to let you bunk with her. If you don't already have other accommodations."

Alistair's spine straightened immediately and his heart beat faster. Callil  _ did _  know. How did she do that?

"Like the woods or some spider hole," Callil continued, apparently unaware of Alistair's recent heart attack. "I don't want to stop you from sleeping in beast form somewhere. A respectable enough way to do things, if one has that ability."

Morrigan managed to crack a smile. "Yes," she said. " _ Very  _ useful indeed."

Alistair glared at her, then made himself stop when he realized how much he was giving away. Stupid!

"I shall take Leliana up on her offer, of course," Morrigan said, pushing herself up off the tree trunk and sidlign towards the half circle of tents around the wet hole that had once served as their camp fire. She glanced at Alistair, a brief look full of secrets and hidden emotion, and then away again. "Tis good to have you back, Warden."

"It's good to be back," Callil said. "I think. Alistair, go to bed. You look like a drowned rat. What were you doing out there anyway?"

"Who knows?" Morrigan said, dripping wet and sweeping past him like a raven queen. "What this one gets up to when he is given spare time, I must tell you, Warden, ‘tis exhausting."

And just like that, Alistair wanted to strangle her again.

But when he went to bed, in dry clothes and painfully aware of Morrigan's soft voice murmuring to Leliana in the next tent, he didn't dream of strangling Morrigan at all. No, his subconscious wanted to do  _ very _  different things to her.

His subconscious, of course, was an idiot.

That didn't stop the dreams though.

* * *

It was also raining three weeks later in Denerim.

Alistair sat at the seat by the window, one leg drawn up against his chest like a child trying to stay warm. He watched the water roll down the wavy glass. He had a book open in his lap but had long ago stopped reading it. There was too much on his mind. For one thing, he was apparently a king now and that was enough to confuse anyone. For another, he might not be a king for very long given that he was planning on fighting an archdemon very soon and that wasn't good for anyone's health.

It had been a very long day.

Someone knocked on the door and, without looking, Alistair said, "Come in."

"You know," Callil said as she slipped into the room, her boots making very little noise on the stone floor for someone so muscular, "now that you're king, you should probably think more carefully about who you invite into your bedroom."

He rolled his eyes and leaned his head back against the stone wall. "I don't think anyone's going to assassinate me, given that I've already proven my deathwish."

"Ah, you mean the demon." Callil closed the door behind her and leaned against it, arms crossed. There was something vaguely threatening about the posture, and Alistair's skin prickled as the hair rose on his arms. "That's why I'm here, actually. I have something to talk to you about." Her mouth twisted. "A favor."

"What's the favor?" Alistair asked.

"I need you to impregnate Morrigan," Callil said.

Alistair's world tilted to one side. He hadn't known Callil to be a joker, but this was a damn good one. Highly entertaining. He just needed to remember to laugh, but his mouth didn't seem to be working correctly. Instead, it just hung vaguely askew, as slack of his brain.

He moved his jaw. No words came out.

_ Impregnate Morrigan _ , ran over and over in his head as he began to feel out the implications of that statement.

Finally, he managed, "Why?"

Callil raised an eyebrow at the squeakiness of his voice but otherwise didn't remark on it. "Well," she said, still staying by the door in what he now realized was a move to keep him in the room, "I've been informed that one of us wardens needs to die in order to kill the archdemon. I've done a lot of things for the world lately, but I don't feel like dying for it. Call me selfish." She shrugged. "Morrigan has a way out and I intend to take it."

"And I have to ... ?" Alistair paused, cleared his throat, coughed. "Uh, get her with child? That's her way out?"

"It's all magic to me," Callil said blandly, examining her ragged nails. "She says that she can contain the demon's soul within the child, though. Something like that. But she needs the Darkspawn's taint to do it. She needs a warden. And I'm ill equipped to help her, even if I wanted to." She made a face. "Which I don't."

"So you've decided to throw me to the wolf?" Alistair snapped, unable to stop himself from imagining his own hands on Morrigan's moon-pale thighs.

Callil raised an eyebrow. "I'm trying to save your life, boy."

"Callil, this is crazy." He got up and paced the length of the room, running his hands over his hair. "Why would Morrigan want a child?" A thought struck him suddenly. "Does she want an heir to the throne?"

"Already thinking like a king," Callil said. "Good. But no. I don't think that's her way. Of course, you could ask her yourself."

"Now there's a conversation I'm looking forward to," Alistair growled. He ran both hands down his face and turned away, trying to maintain both his calm and his facilities — his mind kept coming up with a picture of Morrigan's mouth. "Look, even if I was willing to do this. And I'm not saying I am!" He waved a hand at Callil, heart pounding. "Do you really think this is a good idea. We're talking about Morrigan."

He wanted the witch. Maybe even had a feeling or two for her. But he also knew who she was and wasn't particularly willing to trust her yet. And a child ... that was more than he'd expected. More than he'd wanted. It was a big step.

"Trust me," Callil said. "Or don't. I don't really care, because you'll do it no matter what I say."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alistair snapped, glaring over his shoulder. The fire was too hot against his cheek and he thought he might either be sweating or freezing, it was hard to tell.

"I can say whatever I want in this conversation." Callil, stone-faced Callil, actually smirked. "At the end of the day, you're going to climb straight into her bed and we both know it."

"Why do you say that?" Alistair said.

"Because you two idiots are in love." Callil rolled her eyes. "Obviously."

Alistair's stomach slammed through his abdomen and into the floor at his feet. His head spun and he opened and closed his mouth a number of times, fishlike and stupid. "That's ..." he said finally after what seemed like a number of years of silence, "not true."

Callil squinched her face up doubtfully. "Isn't it?"

He'd lied once. It was too much work to do it again.

"Fine," he snapped, storming across the room and grabbing the doorknob, giving Callil just enough time to step out of the way. "I'll do it. But I'm not going to like it."

Another lie.

"She's in my room," Callil called as Alistair stomped past her down the hall and he was getting really annoyed with how gleeful she sounded about this whole situation. Alistair adjusted his course and threw open the door of Callil's room.

Morrigan, standing by the window, turned away, her face lit by the sputtering fire. An eyebrow went up. "Well," she said, more calmly than he would have liked, "don't you look upset."

"He'll do it," Callil said from the doorway.

He spun to glare at her, more and more annoyed by that smirk, made all the more crooked by her scared mouth. "You're not helping!" he hissed.

"Aren't I?"

Ignoring her, Alistair folded his arms and looked at Morrigan. "You want ... a child?"

"You told him?" Morrigan looked past him and raised an eyebrow at Callil. "Honesty would not have been my first choice."

"What can I say?" Callil said. "I'm very persuasive."

They both stared at her then; despite her placicity, Callil was the least diplomatic person either one of them had met.

"Don't look at me like that," Callil said.

"The child," Alistair said and Morrigan turned around. "You're not planning on putting it on the throne, are you?"

Morrigan's already arched eyebrow rose even further. "A bastard on the throne of Ferelden? Perish the thought, Your Majesty."

"Funny."

"I do not wish to take your throne," Morrigan said. "You shall never see me again. Have no fear."

_ Never see me again _ .

He couldn't tell her that was the last thing he wanted. How could he?

"Fine," he said, staring her straight in the eye and hoping maybe she saw the fear of losing her there without him having to say it. "I'll do it."

"Good," Callil said. "Don't do it in my room. I need to sleep here and I don't need you two dirtying it up."

That made it slightly more real.

"Your quarters then," Morrigan said to Alistair. "I shall meet you there. Callil, a moment?"

And then Alistair left on stiff, shaking legs.

He returned to his own room, stared into the fire for a minute, and then, for no real reason, lit a candle. He didn't need it, since the hearth cast enough light around the room, but he wasn't sure what else to do with himself. He took his boots off, tossing them into a corner. Then he made a full circuit of the room, watching the rain and the soft lights of Denerim beyond.

The door opened. He didn't turn but his muscles all tightened simultaneously.

"Alistair," she said.

He turned. Morrigan too wore no shoes and she'd pulled off her leggings. Her bare feet looked soft and small against the cold stone and all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms to keep her warm. She wore her hood up over her hair which, he realized, was loose over her shoulders.

Every thought went out of his head except how much he was going to enjoy wrapping that hair around his fingers.

"Morrigan." He swallowed and crossed his arms. Suddenly this was far harder than it should be, given that he'd literally dreamed about this moment. "How ... what do you need me to do? Do I have to sacrifice something?"

Morrigan made a face. "Thank you for the offer, but no. I have taken care of all the necessary preparations. We simply need to ... perform."

"Funny," Alistair said flatly.

A ghost a smile drifted across Morrigan's dark mouth. "T'was a bit pointed, was it not."

He cleared his throat. "But in all seriousness, I don't ... actually know what to do." Embarrassed, he pressed his lips together and looked away. "Being raised by Templars didn't give me much experience."

"You seemed like you knew what you were doing once before," Morrigan said.

"That was different," Alistair snapped. "That was ... you know, instinct. I'm not really allowed to run on instinct right now, am I? Just having this conversation is making it very difficult."

"Well, if it makes you feel better, I am no expert," Morrigan said, crossing the room and hopping up to sit on the carved footboard of the bed. She looked so small and delicate. "There was little time for practice under my mother's care. Nor did I want to."

"Are you saying you've never ... ?" Alistair cleared his throat. "You know."

"No," Morrigan said, as though annoyed by the question. "I have not."

"Well do you ... ?" Alistair struggled for words. How was this so complicated? It was stupid. He was stupid. "You want to. Right? With me?"

"That does not matter," Morrigan said, waving her hand and not looking at him. "'Tis for a reason that I do this, not for pleasure."

"It matters," Alistair said, heart pounding, though he wasn’t sure exactly when it had started mattering. "It matters to me."

"Why?" Morrigan said. She sounded as spikey as usual but her eyes darted around the room. One fingernail scratched rhythmically into the wooden footboard. "I do not find you distasteful, if that is what you are wondering. Physically, at least."

Alistair crossed the room to her in one swift move, before he could lose his nerve. He put one hand on the bedpost beside her head and raised the other hand to her face, but didn't touch her.

"Morrigan," he whispered, "I need to know if you  _ want _  to. Not if you have to. Not if you need to. If you  _ want _  to."

Morrigan looked up. She licked her lips in a way that read nervous, not aroused, but Alistair couldn't help but watch her tongue anyway.

"Yes," she whispered back. "I want to."

He kissed her, hand cupping her chin, pulling her up and towards him, half off the bed. Her face blurred this close, but there was a tremble to her mouth beneath his, a nervous twitch in the hand that came up to rest of his chest. Her fingers tapped out a staccato rhythm and he realized she was shaking. But he was shaking too so at least they had that in common.

Morrigan's lips opened up underneath his and there was a scrape of teeth against his lip.

And then she bit him. Hard.

Alistair shocked by the pain, pulled away just a little and that gave Morrigan the leverage to grab his shirt, whirl him around while he was confused and off balance, and push him back. He yelped but managed to catch her arms as he went down and yanked hard. She landed on top of him, scrambling against the sheets to regain some sort of dignity, her mouth still on his. Dark hair fell around his face as he pulled her hips down against his.

It felt  _ right _ .

She pulled away from him and looked down, hair hanging around her pale face. Her eyes flashed like golden suns. Alistair raised a hand and carefully slid it around the back of her neck.

"I ..." she said, quietly. Her eyes were huge. "I don't ..."

"Shh," he said, pulling her back down. "Come here."

Her head tilted, pressing into his hand, but then she pulled further away, sitting fully erect. Her legs tightened around his hips and she pulled her hood over her head. The gold cuffs around her wrists clinked quietly against each other. Her stomach and the vast amount of her bare chest were nearly white in the candlelight, her skin stripped of almost all color, milky and pale like the moon. He raised a hand and laid it delicately on her ribs beneath the swell of her small breasts.

She flinched away from his fingers for a second, then arched her back into his palm. He spread his fingers across her stomach. She was small, so small, and so delicate. And yet, that flash in her eyes. The darkness of the magic roiling inside her. That was almost more than he could handle.

Morrigan dropped her head and undid the ties at the back of her neck. Cloth slid down over Alistair's hand and Morrigan stretched, her chest bare. Alistair's heart stuttered.

Immediately, she folded her slim arms across her chest, hiding her own breasts. "Stop staring," she snapped.

"What else am I supposed to do," Alistair said, though it came out more of a growl than a snap. "Don't tell me you're embarrassed now, witch."

"I am not," she said, though her face was washed pink with blush. "I simply do not wish to be ... ogled."

"Ogled?" Alistair propped himself up on one elbow. "Morrigan, there's going to be a lot more than ogling going on here. Besides." He reached up with one hand, keeping all his weight on the other, and drew one finger down her throat and chest, caught her wrist, and pulled it gently away. "If I have to do this," he told her softly, "I'd like to get the benefit of looking at a beautiful woman while I do."

Morrigan huffed in annoyance. "You do not even like me," she told him as though it was cold hard fact.

"Ah," Alistair said, flummoxed. It was ... well, he couldn't even say she was wrong. That Morrigan made him insane would be more accurate. She was frustrating and acerbic and she didn't like him very much either. But there was ... well, dark magic or not ... he couldn't say he was objecting to anything.

Annoyed again, Morrigan yanked him into a sitting position and scrabbled at his belt. It took him a second to realize what she was doing, and then he batted her fingers away, undoing the leather and yanking his shirt out of his trousers. Morrigan's fingers dug into his skin as she got a hold of the shirt and yanked it up, over his head. He raised his arms to try to help and her bare breasts brushed against his chest. He tried to muffle his gasp but it didn't work and as soon as he emerged from the shirt, he leaned forward to kiss her again, fighting his way out of his sleeves. Despite how annoyed she still seemed with him, she kissed him back, her mouth hard and demanding, and as soon as she could, she slammed him back down onto the bed.

Alistair lost his train of thought around then. He was fixated on Morrigan's skin, the feel of it against his own — soft, but cool despite the heat — the way her teeth felt on his shoulder and neck. She shimmied out of her leather skirts and boots which were suddenly on the ground and looking up at Morrigan, naked and pale as snow made Alistair stop breathing.

"You are staring," she said quietly.

"I am."

Her cheeks went red. "I have a ritual to perform. You're distracting me."

"Alright," he said, annoyed at her as usual, and arched his hips up, which made her gasp. "Why don't you perform it?"

With a flick of her hand, the fire went out, leaving them in almost darkness with only a single candle, the shadows harsh on Morrigan's shoulder and cheekbone. And then her hands were at his trouser ties and he reached out to help, but she didn't need it. Within a second the knots were undone and she was moving, angling her hips. Alistair shuddered as she pushed against him and then growled aloud, hands tightening on Morrigan's hips.

He opened his eyes just in time to meet hers. For a moment, they stared at each other. Alistair's heart pounded.

"What if —?" he said, very quietly, using all his self control.

"Shut up," Morrigan told him sharply, and rolled her hips up and back, which essentially caused Alistair's mind to go blank.

He held on to her waist, and fought to keep his eyes half open despite being so caught up in the physical sensation. He watched Morrigan's face, the twist of her lip between her teeth, the her dark eyebrows pullled together, almost in worry. The little flutters of pleasure that flickered over her, fast enough that he could have missed them. He pushed his hips up, pulling her down, and her mouth popped open in a little shocked O. Her eyes flicked to his face and he couldn't help smirking at her.

"You know," he said, his voice raw, "for the ritual."

Glaring, she put one hand on the headboard and pushed against it, pressing him deeper and Alistair's hands tightened so much on her leg that he was sure it would leave bruises. "For the ritual," she told him, acid and cold even now.

After that, it turned into a competition.

Not a long competition. Alistair wasn't necessarily ready for that. But he did manage to get Morrigan to gasp, "Al — " at one point before she bit her lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. And that felt like winning. Of course, afterwards he immediately lost because even though she hadn't finished it, the idea of Morrigan crying out  _ his _  name in a moment of passion pushed him over the edge and he lost whatever control he had. He groaned and arched upwards, nails biting into the skin over Morrigan's ribs.

She didn't complain.

He lay there, panting, running his thumb idly across Morrigan's stomach as the ability to process information returned to him. It took a long time. His chest felt light but his breathing was as heavy as if he had a rock on his chest.

"Oh," Morrigan said, though the cat-like cruelty in her voice would be somewhat more effective if she hadn't been panting and wide-eyed, her hips still twitching against his, "you're already done."

Alistair growled and, tired as he was, rolled her over onto her back. He took a moment to pull back, leaving a trail of wet on the sheets — Morrigan gasped at that too, which he enjoyed — and looked down at her. "Wow," he said. "We should have tried this. You look good like this."

Morrigan's mouth opened in anger so Alistair slid two fingers between her legs and the insults turned into a whimper.

She pushed back against him until her pelvis knocked against his knuckles and she grumbled. Then she froze. "No, stop that."

Alistair stopped too, suddenly afraid he'd hurt her.

"You don't need to ... the ritual is over," Morrigan said, trying to sit up.

"All right," Alistair said, resumming. "The ritual was for you. This is for me."

"This is undignified!" she snapped, even though "undignified" gained an extra syllable and her voice shot up an octave.

"Yes," he told her, leaning down to kiss her bare stomach. "It is. Now shut up and enjoy yourself for once in your treacherous life."

She looked like she might argue more, but Alister employed a thumb in a move whose importance Oghren had once drunkenly impressed upon him and her head shot back, mouth open and hands gathering fistfulls of bed clothes. It took him a little while to get her where he thought she should be, but when her muscles clamped around his fingers and her back arched back, spine lifting from the bed, he knew he had her.

He pulled his hands away, letting her catch her breath, and looked down at her. He'd been right — her thighs were marked with the seeds of bruises from his hands, and there were small cresents from his nails along her sides and likely her back. From the sharp ache in his shoulders, he probably had his fair share of marks, but that was what happened when two people who weren't quite sure if they liked each other were ... well ... well ...

Even after the act itself, Alistair's brain could only manage "slept together" and even that felt somewhat risque.

He settled onto the bed next to Morrigan and watched her calm herself in profile. The sharp angle of her nose stood out, lit by the single candle.

"Allow me to collect myself," Morrigan said, sounding  _ almost _  back to normal, "and I shall leave your rooms."

"Don't be stupid," Alistair said, putting an arm around her. "Stay."

She looked at him, her eyebrows folding into surprise and concern. "Why?"

He couldn't tell her. He just couldn't. "Just stay, Morrigan. We might all die when we fight the archdemon. We deserve some comfort."

"I do not need comfort," she said, and he knew it was a lie but wasn't willing to argue with her.

"Fine," he said, pulling her closer and kissing her underneath her ear, above the heavy necklaces she hadn't taken the time to remove. One of them had snapped and the bed was full of pearls, hard and cold against Alistair's ribs. "Then say I need to comfort. Stay for me."

She was quiet for a moment, and then said, "All right," and waved a hand at the candle until it went out.

He slept.

She woke him accidently in the middle of the night, sighing and arching back into him and for the first time in his life, he found himself feeling aroused and pushy. He rolled on top of her and she woke slowly when he bit her neck, her chest arching up into his.

"Alistair," she said, voice fuzzy and confused, "the ritual is over. We do not need to —"

"I want to," he muttered into her hair, cupping one hand around her breast. "If you want to."

"Do not need —"

" _ Want _ ," he said, louder.

Her legs came up and wrapped around his hips, pulling him down into her with a mewling sound that sent him wild. Her hands fisted in the sheets, then rose to his shoulders, nails digging into his back and shoulders. Pain blossomed there but he ignored it.

He'd have the scratches for days, which was more time than he'd have Morrigan. But that was later.

When she slept, she rolled into him, her face against his chest, breathing deep and slow. He watched her in the moonlight, unsure what to do now. They might die tomorrow, and he was holding a naked witch against his chest. It was a little too much for him to deal with right now.

He kissed the top of her head and, like an idiot, whispered, "I love you."

She didn't move, just breathed in and out, deep in sleep. For which he was very grateful.

Callil woke them at first light in full battle armor, her face like an oncoming storm.

* * *

"I'll give her this," Alistair said, shading his eyes against the red sky and watching Calill drive her sword through the archdemon's skull for what was probably the fifth time, "she makes sure the job is done right."

He, Morrigan, and Wynne sat on the crenelated battlements, covered in gore from head to toe. Alistair was sure his sword was more blood than metal at this point. There was no more sheen to his armor, and his tabards were crusted and stiff with drying fluids. And yet, somehow they were alive. All of them.

Which, he thought, meant Morrigan was indeed pregnant with the promised demon spawn. Which made him a little uncomfortable, not least because it was his baby with the soul of an archdemon, and also because sleeping with — making love? No, he didn't like that either — Morrigan seemed like a pre-battle fever dream. Or maybe a nightmare, he wasn't sure.

He glanced at her, in the notch to his left. She looked worn out, her face drawn and white with exertion. A cut ran from her hairline to her right eyebrow and the blood crusted there was dark, or maybe it was something else's blood layered on top of her own, hard to say. But when she met his gaze, her eyes were still as bright and hawk-like as ever and she glared at him.

"Oh, Maker," Wynne said, groaning as she got to her feet. "I'd better stop her." And, leaning heavily on her staff, she got up and began making her way across the roof, favoring one leg, to where Callil had started the slow, methodical process of smashing the archdemon's dead skull to bits with her favored axe.

"She's got some energy," Alistair said, shaking his head. "Dwarven princess, my right butock, that's a born killer right there."

"I have to go," Morrigan said.

He tried to stand and teetered on his feet, so Morrigan got up as well and tucked herself under his arm. She was still a little colder than Alistair thought was healthy, but that was her normal, so he didn't question it.

"You can't go anywhere," he told her. "You look terrible."

"Ah, yes, because you are looking so fresh and beautiful yourself," Morrigan told him wryly, glancing up. But the smile slid off her face almost as fast as it had come. "I must, Alistair, and you know it."

"Got what you wanted?" he said, unable to keep the edge from him tone. "Got everything you wanted from us and now you'll just cast us aside like —"

"No," Morrigan interrupted and her tone plus the discomfort and near-sadness in her eyes made Alistair fall silent. "I did not get everything I wanted. In fact, I got quite a bit more that I did not ask for at all."

That didn't make him feel ... great.

"Morrigan," he said and was embarrassed by how much it sounded like a plea.

She shook her head.

There were people everywhere on the flat top of the tower, and a breeze had finally kicked up, blowing some of the darkspawn stink away. A group of soldiers not thirty feet away dragged the bodies of their fallen away from those the darkspawn, to burn them separately. There were people watching them, glancing out of the corners of their eyes at the new king, bloody and injured, arguing with a witch. Alistair could feel their eyes, the delicate flick of their glances as they tried to figure out what their new monarch was like. He needed to be careful. He needed to act like a king.

He didn't.

Instead, he pulled Morrigan against him and kissed her, in full view of the combined armies, with blood on his mouth and bits of archdemon stuck to his armor. He was afraid she'd pull away, but she didn't, instead turning her face up to his, yellow eyes hooding but not quite falling closed.

When she finally pulled away, it was gentle but firm and Alistair took the hint, though he didn't want to.

"I must go," Morrigan said and the pain in her voice was more pronounced.

"Please," he said, not embarrassed any more.

Her face turned back to that familiar scowl, which at least made Alistair feel less like the ground was tilting beneath him. "Stop it," she told him, annoyance lacing her tone. "'Tis embarrassing for me to watch you debase yourself. Are you a king or not? Perhaps you should chose to act like it."

He grinned, lopsided and only a little forced. "I haven't yet," he said. "Why would I start now?"

He kissed her again, a quick peck, and she grumbled at him, and shoved him away.

"Goodbye, Alistair," she said firmly and before he could say anything else to convince her to stay with him on that bloody tower, she stepped back, shivered with magic, and disappeared.

The raven in her place landed on the battlements, hopped once, and cawed at Alistair in a way that sounded exactly like Morrigan's griping. It buried its head briefly in its wing and pulled loose a stray feather, dropping the shining black spear on the stones, then took off into the sky, now more pink than red. Alistair watched her until she flew into a low cloud and was gone.

Alistair leaned down and picked the feather up, unsure of why but knowing he had to.

A hand fell on Alistair's elbow. "Did she leave?" Callil asked, sounding sad in a way that Alistair hadn't actually thought she could.

He nodded. There was a lump in his throat, and he didn't like the implications that held.

Callil bobbed her head a number of times. "Makes sense," she said. "There's more work for our witch, I'd say, but probably not here. She's got plans within plans, that one." A little smile sparked at the corner of Callil's usually stern mouth. "I'd count yourself lucky that you got to push those plans awry for a bit."

"I think I just got mysef suckered right into them," Alistair said.

Callil looked up at him, her tawny eyes sharp. "I wouldn't say that," she said, wiping a streak of archdemon blood from her forehead as though she killed one every day. "If things had gone exactly as she'd planned, I don't think she'd have said goodbye."

It was a good point, but Alistair didn't exactly feel better.

They stood at the edge of the battlements, watching the sky clear to pink, then white, and then darken again to raincloud gray. When the first drops fell, they were escorted inside, to let the blood clear from the tower, though the stones were stained rusty red from it for years to come.

And Alistair twirled the raven feather between his fingers and tried — and failed — to put the witch out of his thoughts.

* * *

"I feel like an idiot," Alistair said, adjusting his mantle so the fur didn't scratch at the back of his neck. "This whole place makes me feel like an idiot. Why don't we have a castle like this?"

"Because Orleasians are assholes, sire," said Finnegan, Alistair's advisor slash scribe slash whatever-other-things-need-to-be-done-doer. "I don't think you should let them make you feel like an idiot, given that they, in fact, are the idiots."

"Very politic of you, Finn," Alistair said, making a face. "Shouldn't I have a mask or something?"

"See my previous statement, sire."

Alistair sighed. "All right, all right. I get it. Assholes all around, Finn, I'm seeing it now. Shall we go in?"

They were standing in the front gardens of the Orlesian Winter Palace, as they had been for some time now. It was beautiful, he couldn't argue with that, but Finnigan was right. The whole place looked like an overdone cake, covered in tiers and gold leaf. Give him a stone block like his own castle any day. At least that one could survive having an archdemon murdered on it and not take too much offense. This place would crumple like tissue paper if the darkspawn even looked at it wrong.

"Idiocy aside, sire, it might be a good idea to perhaps get to know some of the upper echelons of Orleasian society?" Finnegan said with hope in his voice. "Maybe consider ... oh, I don't know ... some particularly pretty daughter?"

Alistair sighed. "Finn, I can't even see what they look like behind the masks," he said, more acerbic than he'd meant to be. "I don't know who’s daughter they are, or how pretty they might be." Not that any of that would matter to him. He wasn't going to produce any kind of child, not with the darkspawn taint running in his blood, so Finnigan had to get right off his "The King needs an heir" obsession before it got them hurt. Somehow. Alistair hadn't worked out yet how that might happen, but it could. He knew it could.

"Yes, sire," Finnigan said, sounding tired.

It might also have been because the famous batchelor King of Ferelden was becoming annoying to the courtiers, who probably could have stomached a whole horde of mistresses rather than a complete lack of interest. Well, maybe not a horde — it wasn't Orlais after all. But at least  _ one _  mistress. Maybe a favorite whore. Something like that would be better to his court than nothing at all.

He kept trying to explain the whole templar thing, that sex wasn't all that important, but it was a lie. He'd tried to find other women attractive, but they weren't ... well ... swamp witches with nasty tempers, to be perfectly frank.

"Let's go," Alistair said. "Come on, Finn, into the fray."

And they walked into the Winter Palace to a fanfare and announcement, which set Alistair's teeth on edge.

People bowed and simpered as he passed, as though he had something to give this masked group, but of course he didn't. They tittered at him behind their masks, he knew, with his bare face and his "backwards" little country. Well, they could eat dog shit for all he cared. At least he had some fire behind his name still, some legend to his kingdom. What did they have, apart from civil wars and golden outhouses?

Finnegan was whispering the names of different nobles to him, a constant stream of information that Alistair mostly tuned out. He glanced around the room, already bored.

“Lady Cynthia, a cousin of the empress,” Finnigan muttered. “We do actually know she’s pretty, sire, so maybe if you want to try a little, you could try in that direction. I hear she’s very nice. And over there, well, that’s the Herald of Andraste, of course, you met her earlier, and she’s talking to ... hmm.”

Finnigan, for the first time since they’d entered the room, fell silent, and that got Alistair’s interest. He looked up, finding the Herald with no problem given that she was the tallest person in the room — that, plus the horns and the flaming red mane of hair made her easy to spot. And the woman she was talking to on the stairs, though much smaller, held herself in the same way — both with their chins up, backs straight, mouths slightly turned down.

And Alistair would have known that posture anywhere.

Despite the Orlesian dress and the ten years since he’d last seen her, she looked just the same. Her dark hair was still caught up at the back of her head and her eyes flashed golden even across the distance between them. Her face was still angular, but she’d filled out somewhat, no longer near skeletal in slimness and her collar bones didn’t press against her pale skin. But neither was he, now that he got to eat more than camp rations. There were lines around her eyes, just a few — crow’s feet of worry and maybe laughter.

The first time he’s seen her, his heart had stuttered as though struck by lightning — half fear, half awe. Now, over a decade later, it did exactly the same thing.

“I’m not sure who that is,” Finnigan said, checking his notes.

“That’s Morrigan,” Alistair said quietly, like a man kneeling before Andraste herself. “The Witch of the Wilds.”

Finnigan gave him a startled look. “The one who traveled with Warden Commander Callil? The one who fought the archdemon? Flemeth’s daughter?”

“That’s the one,” Alistair said, watching the corner of Morrigan’s mouth curl as she spoke with the Herald.

“So you know her?”

“I do.”

“Oh,” said Finnigan, peering at Alistair’s face, then louder and with a dawning realization, “Ooooh.”

Alistair ignore his advisor’s sudden insight as to why Fereldan had no queen, and kept his eye on Morrigan. She finished with the Herald, who bowed to her and spun on her heel, striding away into the crowd of courtiers. Morrigan turned her head, glancing around the room until her face turned in his direction.

She met his eyes.

Alistair didn’t breathe.

Her lips formed his name across the hall, though he couldn’t hear her.

“Morrigan,” he whispered back.

And then, like the soft touch of dawn after a very long night, she smiled.


End file.
